My Father's Keeper
by LucyLouHoo
Summary: A beating from his father is the final straw. Johnny finds himself in a heap of trouble after his attempt to make a stand has deadly consequences. Set before the events of the book.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"Get back here, you little shit! I'm not done with you yet!"

I heard Dad shout that from behind me as I bolted into his bedroom and locked the door. Hell, what else was I going to do? When your father is on your heels with a two-by-four in his hand and eight beers in his belly your only real option is to put a locked door between you and him.

Sometimes Dad has a reason for beating me. Lord knows I ain't always a good kid. I stay out late with the gang when I know Dad expects me home. I sometimes forget to do the dishes before he gets home from work. Once, he caught me stealing cigarettes out of his dresser drawer. He had used his heaviest belt on me that time. But this was different. This time I didn't do anything wrong.

"Johnny! God dammit, you open this door," my father shouted. The thin door of his bedroom muffled his voice, but only slightly. He was drunk. I could tell by the way his words mashed up against each other. He was drunk and mean as hell and he was angry at me just for breathing.

"Leave me alone, Dad! Please just leave me alone." My voice was strong at first, but I heard it taper off at the end. I was scared. He sounded madder than I'd ever heard him.

A loud _womp_ resounded through the house. The thin, plaster walls shook with the force of it. Dad was clearly trying to shoulder his way through the door. He would make it through after another couple shoves. That's when hot anger boiled in my veins. I didn't do anything wrong, yet Dad was still going to beat me senseless. I thought of all the times he had hit me for disobeying him. I sure didn't love those lickings, but deep down I didn't mind them so much. Deep down, I figured I deserved to get beat. I did something wrong, so I got punished. But this was different. I hadn't done anything to deserve it this time. It wasn't fair. I wasn't going to take it.

I dashed over to his dresser and ripped open the top drawer. There was something in there that I needed—something I had noticed the time I had stolen Dad's cigarettes. In the bottom of the drawer, tucked under the stained white undershirts was my father's gun. It was an old Colt revolver. Despite my boiling blood, I shivered when I laid my hand on its inky black surface. I lifted it, feeling its icy weight in my hands and just had time to flick open the cylinder and count the six bullets inside before a loud _crack_ sounded behind me.

I turned to face him. Dad towered in the doorway, his huge hands gripping a four-foot-long piece of wood. His eyes, dark and fierce, were glued on me. Though he was drunk, I could tell he was alert enough to do me some real damage if I gave him the chance. I raised the gun, clutching it in two shaking hands.

"Stay back," I croaked.

To my horror, he laughed—threw his head back and let out one bark-like laugh. "You ain't gunna kill your own father."

He was right. I couldn't do it. I could hate my father for all the pain he caused me, but hating and killing are two different things. I stood frozen with my finger on the trigger. Dad took my moment of inactivity as proof that I wouldn't shoot and brought the two-by-four down on my knuckles. The gun flew from my fingers and landed with a clatter on the rough wooden floor. I was too stunned to react and he landed another blow, this time across my shoulder.

I fell to the ground hard and turned away from him covering my face. I knew that if I just lay still and took it, he would eventually stop. The hard piece of wood came down on my shoulder blades and ribs, hips and forearms. Harsh, radiating pain lanced through my flesh wherever the blows fell.

"I'll teach you to threaten me with my own gun," he grumbled. He hit me even harder.

"Stop. Please-" I begged. It hurt too much to do anything but plead.

"I'll stop when I'm good and ready."

The two-by-four just kept coming down. Pounding, bruising, breaking. I was crying. It was more misery than I could bear. Fathers aren't supposed to do things like this, are they? I thought of Ponyboy's father and how he had died in that car wreck a few months back. Pony was still broken up about it. Soda and Darry were too. I wondered briefly what it would be like to have a father who loved me; a father whose death would break my heart. I bet it would be real nice.

The two-by-four struck me across the chest knocking the breath out of me. It occurred to me that I might actually die from this. I didn't have a lot of muscle over my bones. I figured I couldn't take much more. The pain was too much. But I didn't want to die yet. There was too much I'd never seen; too many places I never got a chance to visit. It wasn't fair.

All of a sudden I _really_ didn't want to die. The flames in my blood ignited again. I burned with the desire to live. I peered out from under my shielding arms and my eye fell on the gun. It lay on the floor mere feet away.

Without another thought, I did what I had to. In one motion, I grabbed for the gun with both my hands, cocked it as I aimed it at my father's chest and pulled the trigger.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Ponyboy was sitting on his bed, reading a paperback book. The night was warm and he had his window open, but Pony had his nose so deeply buried in his book that he didn't notice me standing there. I said his name quietly and he looked up, startled.

"Johnny, is that you?"

"Yeah."

"You want to come in? The front door's unlocked." He looked at me more closely. "Johnny, what's wrong?"

"I don't know what to do, Pony." I rested my forehead against the cool window frame. I felt sick—like I might faint.

"Glory, Johnny. What happened?" Ponyboy whispered.

"I killed my old man."

Ponyboy stood frozen. His mouth was hanging open. I thought he was going to tell me to get lost. I mean, who in their right mind would want a murderer hanging around their house? Pony was going to tell me to leave. Then I would be completely alone.

I was sure I was going to pass out. Sparks like firework explosions broke out everywhere I looked. I felt Ponyboy grab me by the front of my jacket and start hauling me through the open window. "Get in here and sit down," he breathed. I climbed in as best I could and sprawled on the foot of his bed.

"Are Darry and Soda here?" I asked hoping they weren't. I couldn't bear the thought of having to explain what happened to anyone but Pony.

"Soda's out with Sandy. Darry's here, but he fell asleep on the sofa. Talk quiet and we won't wake him up." He sat down on the bed next to me. "Did you really kill him? You're sure?"

"I shot him in the chest with his own gun. He wasn't moving when I ran outta there."

Ponyboy ran a hand through his long, dark hair. "God, Johnny. Why'd you do it?"

Anger flared in my head, clearing it. Did he think I killed Dad for kicks? I _had_ to do it, and if I needed to prove that to Ponyboy, I would. I shrugged off my jacket and peeled off my sweaty black t-shirt. "It was him or me, man."

Ponyboy's breath caught in his chest when he saw the damage. I hadn't looked in a mirror yet, but it sure as hell felt like it looked bad. He reached out a hand as if to touch my shoulder, but then changed his mind and drew back. "Johnny—"

"I don't know what to do, Pony." I was shaking, but I wasn't crying. I was too tired for that.

"Well, I don't know what you should do!" Pony whispered frantically. He jumped off the bed and started pacing. Three steps. Turn. Three steps. Turn. He paused to rub his face. It occurred to me just how young Ponyboy was. He was barely fourteen. How could I expect him to help me with this much heat? He was busy trying to keep good grades and run the fastest at track practice. How could I ask him to help me with this? I must have been crazy to come here.

"Look Ponyboy, I shouldn't have come to you. You don't need to deal with this shit." I stood and made a movement toward the open window. "Forget I ever showed up."

"No, wait—," Pony said. I felt his hand on my wrist. "I'll help you Johnny. Of course I'll help you. We'll figure something out. Sit down, I'll get you a clean shirt. Please."

I sat. Pony tossed me a fresh undershirt, which I stiffly pulled over my head. He kept pacing and started thinking aloud. Pony didn't always use his head, but when he did decide to think, he sure as hell could. "If someone heard the gunshot they would call the cops. But I don't hear a siren. I bet the cops are at your house, but they can't figure out which way you went."

"Shit. Do you think they'll follow me here?"

"No. Not yet anyway. You don't have a record. It's gunna be hard for them to find you if they don't know you exist."

"So, I have a head start?"

"Yeah you do… but…" he broke off looking away.

"What? Ponyboy, what?"

"Well Johnny, think about it." He looked back at me. His green eyes were frank and serious. "You've never been in jail before. Hell, the worst thing you've ever done was that time you lifted a pack of cigarettes from the Texaco. Even then, you were going to bring it back until Two-Bit swiped the pack from you. You're a good kid Johnny, and you act like it. Your dad has been rough on you loads of times in the past. Those welts are proof he was wailing on you tonight. Johnny, I think you should turn yourself in."

"What?"

"You've got a good case for self defense. He could have killed you Johnny. Jesus, he was trying to kill you."

He was right. Ponyboy was completely right, but I felt the guilt in my gut like a wound. I couldn't pretend like it wasn't my fault. I killed my father. I _killed_ him. It wasn't an accident. Maybe I had been defending myself, but I didn't need to kill him. I could have shot him in the leg or shoulder or something. That sure as hell would have stopped him without killing him. But I shot him right in the chest.

"I killed him, man. Not the other way around. I'm guilty."

"I don't think the cops are going to see it that way."

I started to panic. "Look man," I said heatedly. "If I knew you were going to nark on me, I wouldn't have come here. Forget it." I got up and made for the window. Pony grabbed my arm, but I pulled away wincing.

"Johnny, wait," he cried trying to whisper, but not succeeding. I had already climbed outside and was walking away. I wanted to run, but I hurt too much. "Be careful, Johnny!" he added, shouting out the window. "And I won't say nothing! I swear!"

He may have shouted something else, but I didn't hear. I was too far away down the dark sidewalk.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

If Ponyboy refused to help me, I thought maybe Dally would. I wasn't good friends with him, not like I was with Pony, but he was still one of the gang. Plus, he was the only member of the gang who had been in real trouble with the law. He would know what to do. God, he better know what to do.

The hard part was finding Dally. He tended to hang around the rougher parts of town—places I didn't really like to visit alone. Ponyboy and I would hit the Dingo for a burger and Coke. That was all right. But Dally hung out at Buck Merril's place. Buck was always having a party, but they were never the kind of party I liked. Maybe I just don't like parties at all. But I _really _didn't like the idea of hanging around Buck's filthy house with a bunch of cowboys who think they're great at bull riding, but really aren't. I guess Dally liked that it was always loud at Buck's and you were darn near guaranteed to either see a fight or be in one yourself. _I_ generally stayed away from the place.

Tonight was different. Tonight I _had_ to find Dally, and Buck's was as good a place as any to start looking for him. I walked there as fast as I could. Granted, with the way my chest, arms, and back were aching; I was moving pretty slowly. Twice, I panicked when I saw the glow of headlights coming up behind me. I was sure it was the cops. But both times it turned out to just be normal cars. They passed right by me.

I knocked on Buck's front door when I got there, but no one came to let me in. I figured no one could hear me over the awful country music they were blasting. Even through the door it was loud enough to make my head pound. I decided to just let myself in.

The living room was full of guys in cowboy boots and girls in tight dresses. Most of them were holding bottles of beer. I looked around for Dally, scanning the faces, but he wasn't there. I didn't even see Buck Merril. I was thinking of leaving before anyone noticed me, but it was too late.

"Why, if it ain't Johnny Cade!"

It took me a second to figure out who had said that. The voice belonged to a tall girl who was in the process of walking over to me. I recognized her as Dally's girl, Sylvia, who I had met once or twice before. Boy, was she ever good looking. She was wearing this tight green dress with a big white bow in the front. As she walked toward me, she tossed her dark hair over her shoulder and gave me this smile like I was _just_ the person she wanted to see.

"Hi Sylvia, how are you?" I asked, trying to sound casual. I think my voice shook though.

"I'm doing all right, darlin'. How 'bout you?" She had this clear, strong voice that reminded me of a bird singing. She wasn't drunk, but I could tell she had had at least a couple drinks.

"I'm okay. Listen, is Dally here? I need to talk to him."

Her pale eyes got cloudy. "Oh, I guess you haven't heard, huh? Dallas is in jail again. Got picked up for knocking out those windows along High Street."

I swore and damn near pulled out all my hair by running my fingers through it so hard. I didn't know what to do and the only person who could help me was stuck in the slammer. Sylvia reached out and touched my forearm lightly with her crimson painted fingers. She said, "My thoughts exactly, honey. Come with me. I can barely hear you over this racket."

She led me to a small kitchen and pulled two bottles of beer out of the refrigerator. Then she led me out a door at the back of the house into a shadowy backyard with a chain-length fence closing it off. She strolled over to the fence and leaned against it. I couldn't help watching the way her body moved in that dress. Judging from the way she walked, she knew I was watching too. She offered me a beer.

"I ain't old enough to drink," I told her, taking the bottle. She shrugged and popped open her bottle by wedging the cap against the fence and knocking it with her palm. It was about the tuffest thing I've seen a girl do.

"You know, I think you're the first guy I've met that cared one lick about how old he is." She took a long swig from her bottle. I didn't want mine, and I knew I couldn't open it the way she had, so I just set it down on the ground against the fence.

"How long is Dally in for?" I asked.

"Dunno. Couple of months maybe. He's got a pretty bad record, you know?"

My head throbbed. "Dammit. I just… really need him right now."

"Listen, sweetheart," she began, pulling her lips into a smile that didn't reach her pale eyes. "If there's one thing I've learned about Dallas Winston, it's that needing him is not a good idea." She drank more beer. "Whatchu want him for anyway?"

I looked away trying to come up with a lie to tell her. Before I could think of anything, she waved her hand at me dismissively. "Never mind. I get it. You don't think a dumb broad like me can understand the problems you boys get yourselves into. Well, I got problems of my own, ya know that? You hoods ain't the only ones who got problems."

I almost laughed when she said that. If she knew I had just plugged my old man with a heater, she might not think her own problems were such a big deal. But I wasn't going to say anything like that out loud. Not when she seemed like about the tuffest girl I'd ever met. She took another swallow of beer and leaned on the fence again. She had this weird look in her eyes like she was thinking about everything at once and wasn't quite satisfied with any of it. It was the same look Ponyboy had after finishing a book. "What problems have you got?" I asked her. I didn't say it all sarcastic, like Two-Bit would have. I asked because I was really curious about her.

"Oh, you know. My father thinks I'm a whore. My boyfriend is in jail. _Ex_-boyfriend I mean. I'm _through_ with Dallas Winston. All my girlfriends hate me because I'm kind of a bitch to them. And all the guys at this party want to take me home with them when all I really want to do is talk. Same old, same old."

"I like talking," I said.

"Sure you do. You just don't like telling stupid broads about your problems, right?"

"No, that's not it…" I kicked at the bottom of the fence with the toe of my sneaker. I didn't want to tell her about my father because I didn't trust her to keep a secret as big as that. But I didn't want to _tell_ her that. I decided to say, "I just don't want you to get in any trouble because of me."

"Well, ain't you just _sooo_ thoughtful…," she said sarcastically. She finished off the rest of her beer and set the empty bottle down next to my full one. Then she sighed and said, "Sorry. I guess you get why all my friends think I'm a bitch."

"You're not a bitch. You're just saying what's on your mind."

She laughed through her nose. "Thanks for saying that, sweetheart. I know I haven't hung out with you much, but Dallas used to talk about you all the time."

I noticed the way she talked about him in the past tense. She really was done with Dallas Winston. "What did he say about me?" I asked her.

Sylvia leaned in close to me like she was going to tell me a secret. She smelled sweet like springtime. "That wouldn't be any fun if I told you," she whispered. She leaned back, laughing and squeezed my upper arm with her long fingers.

"Sylvia, you know Dally pretty well, right?" I asked.

"Yes."

"What do you think he'd tell me to do? I'm in some trouble with the law. I think the cops might be after me and I don't know what to do. I've never been in any real trouble before and…" She put her hand on my arm again to get me to shut up. This time she left it there.

"First of all, darlin', you gotta calm down. Take a deep breath, okay? Okay. Now, I'll tell you what I think Dallas would say. He'd tell you to leave town. But given the number of times the cops caught him, I don't think you should pay his advice any mind. _I _think you should lay low here. Here at Buck's, even. Greasers sleep here all the time. Buck doesn't mind. And no one knows you're here except me, and I ain't keen on talking to the cops. I think you should stay right here until this thing—whatever this thing is—blows over."

She was making a lot of sense. I didn't know anyone outside of Tulsa. If I left town, I'd be in an unfamiliar place with no one around to help me. Here, at least, I knew my way around. So what if Ponyboy wouldn't help hide me? Here, I could hide myself. And honestly, I didn't want to leave Sylvia. Talking with her made me feel better. Calmer. I think she could tell because she smiled and put her hand on my cheek.

"You're gunna be okay, Johnny," she said.

All of a sudden, I wrapped my arms around her. I don't know where I found the courage to do it. I had hardly ever even talked to a girl before. But she was standing so close to me and her fingers were soft and cool against the skin of my face. When I held her, she held me back. Her arms looped around my ribcage and rested on my shoulder blades. I winced when her hands brushed my bruises. She must have noticed, because her touch got gentler, but she didn't say anything about it. I was grateful for that.

"You're different from other guys," she said, her voice real quiet.

"Why's that?"

"You're _actually_ as tough as you look."

I wasn't sure what she meant. She might have been making fun of me. But I didn't much care. Her body felt too good in my arms for me to think about letting her go. I could feel her warmth and the slight sway of her body every time she took a breath. Her eager eyes were bright with moonlight. I leaned in and pressed my lips against hers, gently at first, but then stronger. God, it felt nice.

You know in books where people kiss and they say they forget about everything else? That didn't happen to me. I still knew I had just shot my father. I still knew my best friend had abandoned me. I still knew Dallas Winston would eventually kill me for kissing his girl. But it was a helluva lot better to think about my problems with Sylvia's body curved against mine than to face things alone. We held each other tighter. Her fingers traced the back of my neck. Mine slid from her waist to her hips. All the while, our lips stayed locked, holding each other together as everything else was falling apart.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The party didn't break up until three in the morning. I was dead on my feet by then. Really, I thought I was going to fall down for the last three hours of the party. Sylvia kept putting her arm around my waist when she stood next to me. It felt nice to have someone close by. She and I didn't kiss much more after that first time, which was okay with me. Honestly, I felt kind of guilty for kissing her with Dally in jail and everything. I didn't _regret_ kissing her or anything. I just felt kind of bad about it.

Most people left the party around the same time, but there were a few stragglers left sprawled on the couches. They all looked drunk out of their skulls. Hell, Buck Merril himself was sitting in an armchair half asleep with a bottle of beer tipping dangerously in his hand. Clearly, he wasn't going to make a fuss about who slept over.

I spent the night sleeping on the floor with Sylvia's head against my shoulder. I didn't even notice how uncomfortable it was until I woke up the next morning with my whole body stiff and aching. I swear, I felt like a ninety-year-old man. I eased myself away from Sylvia and found a bathroom to use.

My reflection in the grimy mirror was scary as hell. Usually my skin was pretty dark, but in the dim light of the bathroom, I looked pale and even kind of sick. There were dark circles under my eyes and the eyes themselves were bloodshot and dry. I lifted my shirt to check my bruises. They were purple, red, and blue. I gently pressed a finger to a bruise on my ribs. Bad idea. I decided not to try that again. After I splashed my face with cool water I felt a bit better.

The rest of the day was pretty boring. Buck didn't seem to mind Sylvia and me hanging around. She and I helped him clean up the place. A couple of times, I caught Buck staring at Sylvia's behind while she bent over to pick up beer bottles. I got kind of angry about that, but I didn't say anything. I couldn't really blame him for looking. Besides, he said he would pick us up some burgers, so I didn't want to make him mad for fear of him changing his mind.

At the end of the day, Sylvia said she had to go and prove to her parents that she wasn't dead. She promised to come back the next day, though. Buck was surprisingly fine with me spending another night there. I had explained to him that I was trying to keep a low profile. I think Sylvia might have slipped him some money for me. I didn't have enough pride left to mind that. Plus, I had nowhere else to go.

* * *

I woke up late the next morning to the sound of someone pounding on Buck's front door. I sat bolt upright on the couch, my blood turning to ice in my veins. _Oh God, the cops!_ My eyes whipped around the room trying to find somewhere to hide, but I was too panicked to even get off the couch.

Then I heard a muffled, but familiar voice shout, "Buck! Open up! Are you in there?" It was Ponyboy. His voice sounded high pitched and nervous, but he was yelling at the top of his lungs.

The second I heard his voice, I forgot about how I was supposed to be mad at him. I was suddenly desperate to see a familiar face. I hadn't realized how lonely I was. I jumped up and flung open the door.

Ponyboy practically died when he saw me. His jaw dropped open and he shouted, "Johnny—you're here!" His green eyes lit up. He looked so happy to see me that I almost felt like crying. Without hesitation, I grabbed Pony by the shoulders and pulled him to me.

"I'm so glad to see ya, Pony," I said. It hurt when he hugged me back, but I didn't mind. "What are you doing here?" I asked him.

"Looking for you, of course! I've already been to Tim Shepard's this morning. He told me to try here. Glory, Johnny, all the guys are worried sick about you. I haven't told them I saw you the other day."

I pulled him into the house and shut the door behind him. "Listen Ponyboy, I'm sorry I ran like that. I wasn't really thinking straight." Having calmed down, it seemed ridiculous that I could ever think Ponyboy would desert me. He was my best friend. He had showed up at Buck Merril's house when I needed him most.

"Hey, that's okay. That night was…bad. But hey!—" His eyes opened wide like he just remembered something. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a messily folded piece of newspaper. "Things could have been a lot worse. Read this."

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's Shakespeare's eighteenth sonnet. Jeez, what does it look like? It's a newspaper article. Will you just read it already?"

I flattened the paper against my leg and started reading.

_**Suspects at Large in Shooting on Chestnut Drive**_

_Late Friday night, police were dispatched to a residence on Chestnut Drive after receiving reports of gunfire in the neighborhood. When they arrived on the scene, police found a man prostrate on the floor with a bullet wound in his abdomen. The victim, Martin Cade age 40, was immediately transported to Saint Gertrude Memorial hospital where he remains in critical condition._

_Police say the investigation in this case is ongoing. Suspects include the victim's wife Judith Cade age 39, and son Johnny Cade age 16. The whereabouts of both suspects are currently unknown. Anyone with information regarding this crime is encouraged to contact police immediately._

I swallowed hard and said with disbelief, "My father isn't dead?" I could remember the vacant look in his eyes when he fell. How could he still be alive after that?

"No, he's alive," said Ponyboy eagerly. "Johnny, you haven't killed anyone. Everything's going to be fine."

"But this says 'critical condition'. He could still die."

"Well… maybe… but, can you just look at the bright side for once in your life? Jeez…" Ponyboy said and punched me playfully in the arm, trying to cheer me up.

I figured I should have felt relieved that my dad was still alive. If he survived, I wouldn't be wanted for murder. But the problem was that I wasn't relieved. Part of me was, but a bigger part of me was wishing I _had_ killed my father. I know it sounds crazy. But that day I spent hiding out at Buck's was the first time I wasn't dreading going home to that loose cannon who called himself my father. I didn't want that man to be alive—not after he had caused me so much suffering. What kind of person wishes his father was dead? I felt so damned guilty for feeling that way about him. I just couldn't help it though.

"God, Pony…" I struggled to say. My eyes were burning. "I just feel so guilty _all the time_."

His eyes were full of compassion when he looked at me. I almost reached out to hug him again just because he looked so sad for me. But I didn't. I had made a decision. It was a decision I should have made two days before when I had visited Ponyboy at his house. I took a deep, steadying breath.

"Ponyboy, you were right," I said, my voice quiet but confident. "I have to turn myself in."

He didn't look surprised. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I'd rather go to jail than hide at Buck Merril's for the rest of my life." I was trying to act like it wasn't a big deal, but Ponyboy saw right through me. He gripped my shoulder hard.

"The gang's with you, Johnny. Remember that," he said seriously, looking me straight in the eye. "No matter what happens, I'm with you."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

I'd been sitting on the wooden bench in the cell at the police department for so long that I couldn't feel my legs. Sitting alone like that gave me a chance to think about everything that had happened to me in the past few hours. The problem was that I really didn't want to think about any of it again. To tell the truth, I felt lower than I had ever felt in my life. I was alone, my bruises hurt, and I had no idea what was going to happen to me.

Then again, sitting alone in the cell was not nearly as bad as being interrogated had been. The police had questioned me right after Ponyboy and I had gotten there. See, he and I went straight to the police station from Buck's place. When I told the cops who I was, they put me in handcuffs. I didn't mind it too much, though. It's not like I was planning on fighting them or anything.

They sat me down in a small room that had two chairs and a desk in it. An old, fat cop came in and sat down across from me. He was wearing a gray suit rather than a police uniform, but when he sat down I could see he had a pistol strapped to his belt. He introduced himself as Detective Something-or-other—I didn't pay much attention—and asked me what had happened the night my father was killed. I told him everything exactly the way it happened. No lies. No exaggeration. When I told the part about how my father had beaten me with the two-by-four, the detective's expression didn't change. He just scribbled something on a yellow notepad and let me finish my story.

When I was done talking, he asked, "Have you got bruises, son?"

I nodded.

Minutes later, I found myself standing in my underwear in front of a doctor and a photographer. I was shaking so bad, I couldn't figure how they'd be able to get decent pictures of me. The doc must have noticed because he said, "It'll only take a minute more, Johnny."

After the pictures, the doc examined me. He said I probably had a cracked rib, but nothing that wouldn't heal on its own. Hell, I could have told him that. They took my clothes as evidence and gave me an orange jumpsuit to wear. I'd worn jeans and t-shirts all my life. I didn't feel like myself in the stiff canvas suit.

The detective had returned and led me to the back of the station where there was a row of cells. He unlocked one and gestured me in.

"Um… Detective?" I said after he re-locked the cell door and turned to leave. He faced me again and raised his eyebrows questioningly. "My father. Is he going to live?"

Again, the detective's face showed no emotion. This guy was really a professional.

"I don't know, kid," he said steadily. "But when I know, you'll know."

I had been in the cell ever since, just sitting and thinking and waiting. I couldn't stop thinking about Sylvia. I had left her a note back at Buck's place, since I knew she was planning on coming back there. The words I had written her repeated themselves over and over again in my head.

_Sylvia__—_

_ I had to go turn myself in. Sorry I didn't have a chance to say goodbye. I wanted to go to the police station before I lost my nerve. It's better this way. Maybe I can stop felling so guilty. It was good to get to know you, Sylvia. I wish I could have had more time with you, but I have to go do this. _

_See you around, _

_Johnny_

_PS: Think about forgiving Dally. It's hard to stay out of trouble when you're a greaser. I know that now. _

I wondered if she would ever even find the note. I desperately wanted her to find it. She was the only girl I'd met who had really tried to understand me. I didn't want to just leave her with no word.

That made me think of the rest of the gang. They probably didn't know what had happened to me, unless maybe Ponyboy had told them. Ponyboy. What had even happened to him? He had come with me to the station, but I hadn't seen him since they had taken me to the interrogation room. I hoped he was all right. Probably the cops had just asked him a few questions and let him go. Ponyboy had an innocent face and if he told the truth, his story would match up with mine. He was probably at home with his brothers already.

Home. That was something I would never have. I had never felt at home with my parents. Not when I was constantly in the middle of a shouting match between them. My mother had never hit me, but she was always either too drunk or too lazy to defend me when Dad started swinging. He hit her too sometimes. I thought about what it might be like to have a family I could love, but I could hardly even imagine it. I leaned back against the cool cinderblock wall of the cell and sighed. What did it matter anyway? I had been taking care of myself since I was seven, and that's exactly what I would continue doing until I made it through all this. The thought calmed me a little.

I was shaken out of my thoughts by the approach of the detective. He carried his notepad and had the same stony expression on his face. Something about how stiffly he carried himself made me nervous. He stared at me silently for several seconds, then asked, "Mr. Cade, when was the last time you saw your mother?"

I had to think about it for a while before I could remember. It seemed like years had passed since I had seen Mom. So much had happened since then. "I saw her Friday morning. The same day I… you know… shot my father."

"What time would you say it was when you saw her?"

"Before school. Probably around 7:30. Why?" I had a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach when I asked him.

The detective finished jotting something down on his notepad, folded his arms across his considerable belly and said, "You're mother's been murdered. And frankly son, you're our top suspect."

* * *

_Thanks so much to everyone who's written me a review! I really appreciate the feedback. _

_Stay gold :D_

_-LucyLouHoo_


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

It was a good thing I was already sitting down when the detective told me that my mother had been murdered. If I had been standing, I probably would have fallen flat on my back. As it was, I still felt like I was going to die. It was like all the blood dropped out of my head at one time. I could hardly see straight and my hands started shaking so bad, I had to hook them in my armpits to keep them still.

In that moment, I realized a lot of things all at once. For one thing, I knew I was in even deeper trouble than before. If they could get a jury to believe I had killed my mother in cold blood (which probably would be easy, given my greaser background) I would be, as the saying goes, shit out of luck. Guys spend the rest of their lives in prison for killing their mothers. For another thing, I had a pretty good idea of who actually _had_ killed my mother. Her biggest enemy in the world had to be my father and I knew his capabilities when it came to hurting people. I carried the proof of that on my chest and back. But the thing that really hit me hard, the thing that made my heartbeat thud in my throat, was grief.

It took her death for me to realize it, but I loved my mother. It wasn't the kind of love that makes you ache for a person when they aren't around. Mom had never been great company, so it wasn't like I missed her. The love I felt for my mother was more like nostalgia. She had always been around when I was growing up. I could remember running to show her the first baby tooth I had lost. So what if she never pretended to be the tooth fairy? To me, showing her was what had mattered. It hurt like hell to know that I could never show her anything again.

I just sat there staring at the detective for a moment. Then all of a sudden, I started bawling. I didn't even have enough energy left to be embarrassed about it. I wiped my nose on my wrist and asked between snivels, "How was she killed?"

The detective frowned like he wasn't sure he should talk about it with me, but then he answered, "Strangled."

An image popped into my head of my old man with his massive, brutish hands wrapped around my mother's neck. The thought made me cry even harder. I had completely lost my cool. I turned my dripping face to the detective and pleaded, "I didn't kill her! Please, Detective! You _have_ to believe me. I only shot my dad cause he was beatin' on me. _Please!_" What the hell was I doing? Greasers don't plead with cops. At that moment though, I didn't much feel like a greaser.

The corner of his mouth pulled back thoughtfully. "It looks mighty bad for you though, boy. One parent dead and the other shot bad…"

"I didn't have any idea my mother was dead!"

"Maybe not. But how can I know that for sure?"

"Because I'm telling you so!" I said. Well, really I was yelling by that point, which probably wouldn't help my case. I rubbed my palms against my face then sprang up and started pacing around my cell. After a few laps, I paused and addressed the detective again, this time as calmly as I could muster. "I've only ever told you the truth, sir."

"In that case, you should have nothing to worry about," he said as he made another note on his pad. Somewhere in the station, a phone started ringing. I figured it was the detective's office phone because he said, "'S'cuse me," and walked off.

I thought about screaming just to blow off some steam, but making myself seem even more looney wouldn't help my case either. I made myself sit back down on the bench and shut up. The best thing I could do for myself was to keep calm and wait for them to find some evidence to prove my innocence. I hadn't killed my mother. There had to be some way to prove that. Something would turn up. Something _had_ to turn up.

"Hey, Cade." I looked up to see the detective leaning against the doorframe of his office. He scribbled something else on his notepad then balanced his pencil above his ear. "That was the hospital on the phone."

A wave of heat flashed through my face. I was real scared about what he was going to say next. Somehow I managed to keep my mouth shut and not interrupt him.

"Your father's awake. We'll be getting a statement from him as soon as he's able."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The next day, I was moved to the Oklahoma State Juvenile Reformatory. It was less than thirty minutes from the police station. They drove me there in a cop car with my hands cuffed together.

Eventually, I found myself in a small cell with a skinny cot topped with a thin mattress against one wall and a toilet in the opposite corner. Home sweet home— at least for the time being.

I spent the whole afternoon sitting on that cot wondering about what my father could possibly be telling the detective. Was he pinning it all on me? If he had any sense, he surely would. And though he was mean, dear old dad wasn't stupid. My biggest hope was that he would be questioned before he was feeling well. If he was in a good bit of pain, he might slip up and say something that made him look guilty.

You see, I was operating on the assumption that my father had killed my mother. I couldn't prove it, of course. I just felt it in my bones. I wasn't sure how I felt about this gut feeling either. On one hand, if Dad were to confess, I went from being 'that boy who shot his father' to 'that boy who shot a murderer'. That was a good thing. But on the other hand, I really didn't want it to be true. I already hated my father enough. I didn't need another reason. Certainly not one as terrible as that.

After a while, a guard showed up and told me it was time for dinner. He let me out of my cell and led me down several hallways and through a heavy metal door to the cafeteria. There were tons of guys already in there, some waiting in line to get melamine trays of what appeared to be spaghetti, others sitting at rectangular tables that had stools attached at the base.

It had been a while since I had been around a crowd of people, so I felt pretty out of it. I stood staring for a moment until the guard gave me a shove between my shoulder blades and said, "Go get in line, boy."

I got in line, got my spaghetti and found an empty table in the corner of the room. I wasn't hungry at all, but I made myself eat anyway just because I was supposed to. I was staring hard at my fork wishing I were invisible when I saw another guy come up to my table and sit across from me. I didn't want to talk to anyone, so I didn't look up. But then I heard the guy say, "Why if it ain't Johnny Cade!"

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard that. I looked up to see none other than Dallas Winston sitting across from me. He was wearing the same orange jumpsuit that I had on, but somehow he made it look cool. I think it was the way he was slouching on the stool with one elbow propped on the table. A slight smirk on his mouth was the only thing betraying the fact that he was happy to see me. I was less cool with my reaction.

"Dally!" I shouted and dropped my fork into my spaghetti. I wanted to hug him, but hugging a guy in jail didn't seem like the tough thing to do. I settled for grasping him by the forearm across the table.

"Johnnycake, you look like you ain't seen another human bein' in years. Relax would ya? You're gunna give me a complex gawkin' like that."

"I'm just so glad to see you! I can't believe you're here! I mean… of course you're here. I knew you were here. But… glory, you're a sight for sore eyes!"

"It's nice to see you too, but I'd rather not see you in jail," he said giving me a look that was almost stern. "How come you're in here, Johnny?"

"I shot my old man."

Dally didn't flinch. "He had that coming for a while now the way he treated you. Is he dead?"

"No. He's in bad shape, but they think he'll live."

"Guess that's good. You'll get out of here quicker that way. How long are you in here for anyway?"

"Don't know. I haven't had a trial yet. I think they just sent me here because they don't know what else to do with me. My mother was murdered."

"Wait, really?"

"Yeah. _I_ didn't do it."

"I figured that. You're having a helluva bad week, huh Johnnycake?"

"Now you get why I'm so glad to see you."

Dally's face turned thoughtful. He looked up at the clock, which hung over the door. "Only five minutes before dinner's over. I haven't seen you around the dormitory. They got you over in solitary?" After he asked, he shoveled a few forkfuls of spaghetti into his mouth and started chewing at top speed.

"I guess so," I answered. "I have a cell to myself and it's got a toilet in it."

Dally swallowed his mouthful and said, "I think a stay in solitary would do me some good." He stood up and stuck his hand in his remaining spaghetti, closing his fingers around a big wad of it. Without saying a word, he reached around the back of a boy sitting at the table behind him and ground the fistful of pasta into the guy's face. The guy had Dally by the throat in an instant, but Dally suckerpunched him in the gut. Spaghetti Face staggered back, but recovered quick enough to land a right hook that sent Dally sprawling on the floor clutching his left eye. The fight would have gone on if two guards hadn't grabbed each of the boys by the arm holding them still.

"Enough!" shouted a fifth guard who brandished a club in his beefy hands.

"He started it sir," Dally said, twisting his face into a passable attempt at an innocent expression.

"Shut up, Winston. I saw what you did with the spaghetti. You'll be spending the night in solitary. No complaining. You know the rules," the guard said pointing the club at Dally threateningly.

"Yes sir," Dally said staring down at his feet like he hated taking the punishment. But I knew better. Dally wanted to be in solitary with me and Dallas Winston always got what he wanted.

* * *

A guard led me back to my cell, this time with Dally at my heels. They put him in the cell next to mine, so once they locked us in we couldn't see each other. But just knowing he was on the other side of the wall made me feel better. I wasn't alone like I had been. I was more grateful to him for being there than I could really express.

"Dally," I said quietly—hardly more than a whisper. "You didn't have to get in trouble just to keep me company."

"Eh, I've been behaving myself too good lately anyway. Forget about it."

"How's your eye?"

"I've had worse."

Translation: it hurt pretty damn bad. He'd have a black eye, but it's not like that was something new for him. He'd wear it like a badge of honor.

"So," Dally said, clearly changing the subject, "Johnny Cade finally gets thrown in the slammer. I'm surprised it took you this long to get busted. I thought for sure they'd haul you in that time you lifted a switch blade from Wilson Hardware."

"Dally, that was _you_ who stole the switchblade. And they _did_ haul you in. You were in here for a month."

"Really? Well, I'll be damned. Coulda sworn it was you. Guess I've been in trouble so much I can't keep it all straight."

"I feel like I've had enough trouble in the past three days to last me a lifetime," I said.

Dally didn't say anything for a second. Then he asked quietly, "You're feeling pretty down about this whole thing, ain't cha Johnny?"

"Well, yeah! How would you feel? I mean, I'm probably going to be in jail for the rest of my life!"

"Naw, that ain't true. I was in _deep_ trouble back in New York and everything turned out all right for me. Hell, this could actually end up being a good thing for you. No foolin'! I mean, it's really bad about your mother. That part is awful. But look on the bright side. After this, there's no way you'll be sent back to live with your ass-hole of a dad. Your life can only get better from this point."

He was trying to make me feel better, but I didn't feel like cheering up. "Whatever you say man."

"Johnny, moping around ain't gunna help you none."

"I can't just… turn it off, you know? I'm not like you Dally. I'm not as… _cold_ as you are."

He didn't say anything. I knew immediately that I'd gone too far. A guy just doesn't say stuff like that to Dallas Winston. The silence lasted for a long time. Uncomfortably long.

Dally sighed. "Cold, huh? Sylvia tells me that all the time." He used the present tense to talk about her. In Dally's mind, things were not over between the two of them. My heart beat in my throat as I remembered how well her soft lips had fit against mine. I felt guilty about it, but I couldn't tell him that she and I had kissed. If I came clean I would risk losing my only friend in the joint.

"Dal, I'm sorry." I knew he thought I was apologizing for calling him cold, but I was really sorry for kissing his girl while he was in jail.

"No, it's ok. It's true. If being cold means not giving up when you catch a hard break or not taking it personal when Socs jump you, then I'm cold as ice. Being cold is what makes you strong, savvy? Care too much and you get broken."

He wasn't making me feel better. In fact he was making me feel awful. Up until then, I hadn't thought about how Dally might be suffering. He always seemed fearless. If someone as strong as Dally had to fight to keep a positive attitude when times got tough, there was really no possibility of a weak guy like me ever being happy. I was glad Dally couldn't see me from the next cell. I was crying a little. Not enough that he could hear me, but he would have seen the tears on my cheeks.

After a while, I pulled myself together enough to ask, "How do you do it, Dally? When everything's going to hell in a hand basket, how do you keep your cool?"

I heard the metal springs in his cot creek as he shifted his body. Then he said, "Johnny, I don't keep my cool any better than you do— at least not on the inside. Now shut up and get some sleep, will ya?"


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

After breakfast in the cafeteria the next morning, Dally was allowed back into the regular dormitory while I was led to solitary. I was pretty bummed about being left alone again, but by that point I was starting to get used to it. I felt a bit better than I had before, honestly. It was like that old saying that time heals all wounds. My wounds were still there, but they weren't bothering me quite so much as they had been.

I lay back down on the cot and tried to sleep a bit more just because there wasn't anything else to do. I was sort of half-asleep when I heard footsteps coming up the hallway. I sat up just as two men appeared at the bars of my cell. One was a police officer in a uniform. The other was my good friend the detective.

"How ya doing Mr. Cade?" the detective asked casually.

"Okay. How are you, sir?" I was a little annoyed at myself for missing his name. I figured I might have racked up a few points in his book by calling him Mr. -_.

"I'm fine. Let's cut to the chase. Your father wants to talk to you. We're taking you to see him at the hospital."

"Really? Aren't you afraid I'll shoot him again or something?" Maybe I shouldn't have said that. It probably made me sound crazy.

"Do you have a gun on you, kid?"

"No."

"Then I ain't worried. Come on."

The officer handcuffed me and led mo out to a cop car. The ride to the hospital seemed to take forever because I was so nervous. I didn't really want to talk to my dad. I was trying to think of what he might want to tell me, but I couldn't come up with anything. I couldn't figure why he would ever want to talk to me again after I shot him. But for some reason he did, and I would listen if he wanted me to. With my hands cuffed, I didn't have much choice in the matter anyway.

We parked outside the hospital and the officer helped pull me out of the backseat. The detective stared at me sternly from under he thick, furrowed eyebrows. "Kid, if I uncuff you, you gunna try any funny stuff?"

"No sir."

"You sure? Because if you try anything, you ain't gunna like the consequences."

"Yes sir."

The officer took the cuffs off but still kept his hand around my elbow. It's not like I wanted to try to escape anyway. I wanted to know why my father wanted to see me and I knew they would just take me back to the Reformatory if I caused any trouble. So I rubbed my wrists where the handcuffs had been and kept as quiet and gentle as a lamb.

The hospital was full of nurses and doctors bustling around. Twice, I had to squeeze myself up against the police officer to make way for gurneys to pass by. The ward my father was in was slightly quieter. I got the feeling that most of the patients there were in for a long stay. Finally, we paused outside a door. The detective pulled his notepad out of his jacket pocket and flipped to a fresh page. He stooped slightly to look me in the eye.

"I can't leave you alone with him. Sorry about that. But you feel free to say anything you want. Just pretend I'm not even here," he said as he pulled out a fountain pen and unscrewed the cap. I could tell he was going to write down every word that would pass between my father and me. So what if he did? I didn't have anything to hide and I didn't want my father's secrets kept hidden. "All right," he said nodding toward the doorknob. "Go on in."

My hand shook as I twisted the doorknob. The door swung open slowly as my heart thumped hard in my chest. The hospital room was small and clean. In the middle was a bed upon which my father lay with a blue hospital blanket pulled up to his chest. I could just make out the top of a bandage poking out from under the edge of the blanket. Medicine pumped into a vein in his arm through a tube connected to a hanging glass bottle. His face was pale and clammy-looking but when I got near his bed, I could tell from his eyes that he recognized me.

"Hi Dad," I said stupidly. I couldn't think of anything else to say. 'Sorry about that time I shot you in the torso' doesn't cut it. Besides, I wasn't sorry.

I took another few steps forward and sat on a stool next to the bed. The detective and uniformed officer stayed by the door as if them staying four feet away would give me some privacy. My father took a shallow breath and opened his mouth to speak.

"Hi Johnny."

"How you feeling, Dad?"

He raised his shoulders almost imperceptibly, attempting to shrug. Seeing him there, weaker than he'd ever been in his life made me feel strange. I had never thought of my father as a real person who could be hurt. He had always done the hurting in the past. He looked so miserable, I almost _was_ sorry for having shot him.

"Look, Dad. I never wanted—" I began, but then broke off not knowing how to finish.

"Don't apologize," he croaked. "Lord knows I gave you reason to shoot me." The memory of the two-by-four burned in my mind making my bruises ache like they were fresh. "But there's more, Johnny. There's more I gotta tell you. I gotta come clean before—" A weak, dry cough interrupted him. He turned his black-and-gray stubbly face away but didn't try to cover his mouth. He turned back to me and said, "It's like that saying from the Bible. 'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil.' Except I _do_ fear the evil because the evil's _in me_."

_He really thinks he's going to die_, I thought. It was hard to believe he was the same person. The father I knew would never discuss Bible verses with me. Ponyboy had taken me to church once, but neither of my parents had ever showed interest in religion. Dad always spent Sunday mornings sleeping off his hangover or drinking the 'hair of the dog that bit him'. Dad's mention of religion now made the seriousness of the situation sink in.

"Johnny, I have to come clean before God. So I have to tell you." He swallowed. I heard the dry grating of his throat. "I killed your mother."

His confession hit me like a ton of bricks. Though I had always guessed at the truth, I hadn't been sure. Part of me had clung to the slim possibility that my father was a good man who just sometimes got angry. Dad's admission crushed that part of me. He was a monster who killed the woman he had promised to cherish.

"Why?" I asked, my voice shaking.

"Got mad," he said simply. "I wasn't drunk. It was the morning you shot me, but I hadn't had a drink yet. You know, I don't even remember what she and I were fighting about. I grabbed her by the throat to shut her up, you know? But it went too far. I didn't mean to do it, and right away I wished I could take it back. That's why I got rough with you later. I felt so lousy about what I did to her."

He fell silent for a second. I could hear the feverish scratching of the detective's pen against his notepad. Then my dad spoke again, his voice hardly above a whisper.

"I've seen things Johnny. I was dead for a few minutes. Did they tell you? My heart stopped and I saw things before they started it back up again. I went through this tunnel— I know it sounds crazy. And I saw this light. I think it was Jesus. I _know_ it was, I felt it. And He asked me what I had done with my life. I saw… everything—all the bad things, all the selfish things I've done. I wanted another chance so I could tell you I'm sorry and he gave it to me. He said it wasn't my time yet, but that he would be back for me soon."

Honestly, I did think he was crazy. He sometimes got the DTs when he couldn't get a drink for a long time. Once he scratched his arms raw trying to get rid of cockroaches only he could see. But this was a different kind of crazy. He seemed completely at peace, which had never been true before. Whatever he had seen, or whatever he had thought he had seen had changed him. The father I knew would _never_ apologize to me for anything. Even if he had felt sorry about something, he was too proud to ever admit he had been wrong. But this man lying in the bed before me seemed empathetic in a way my father had never been.

Even after this transformation, I could only see the man who had stood over me, belt in hand, making me wish I had never been born. As far back as I could remember, this man had made my life miserable. No spiritual awakening could take back all the things he had done.

"I don't care, Dad," I said. I waited for him to yell or something but he just lay still, so I went on. "Do you think that saying you're sorry will make everything ok? You _ruined_ my life!" I pressed my palms against my eyes trying to get a hold of myself.

"I know. And I can't make you forgive me," Dad said. "Jesus forgives me though."

I clutched my hands together in my lap, my knuckles white with tension. I didn't much care if Jesus forgave him. I didn't much care about anything except the fact that he had killed my mother and made me suffer for years. I felt like maybe it was dangerous for me to be in the same room as Dad. I felt like a loose cannon that might go off at any second.

I turned to the detective and said, "I need to go. Can I go?" He scribbled a final note, looked up at me and nodded.

I stood up, anger still pulsing through me, and said the only thought I had in regard to my father:

"I hate you."

Dad closed his eyes, a grimace of pain on his pale face. I couldn't tell if it was his wound or my words that caused him pain, but it didn't matter. As long as he was hurting, I was happy.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The conversation with my father left me feeling confused and shaken. We got back in the car and drove away, but I was way too pre-occupied with my thoughts to even notice the route the car was taking. To my surprise, we ended up not at the Reformatory, but at the police station.

"Why are we at the station?" I asked as we got out of the car. It wasn't until that moment that I realized they hadn't put handcuffs on me.

"Because some new information has come to my attention and you and I need to talk about it," the detective explained gruffly.

He led me into his office and gestured me into a chair in front of his wide, polished-wood desk. On the edge of it was a long, skinny nametag plaque reading 'Detective Robert Wichnowesky'. _No wonder I didn't catch his name_, I thought to myself. After closing the office door, he maneuvered his large belly around to the back of his desk and sat down facing me.

"I'll be honest with you, Mr. Cade," he began as he flipped through his notepad surveying what he had written. "I don't quite know what to make of your case."

"What do you mean?"

"You shot you father. You _admit_ to having shot your father. Meanwhile, your father admits to having killed your mother, so he's clearly a piece of shit— pardon my French." He raised a huge hand to scratch his clean-shaven chin then fixed me with the sharp stare of his blue-gray eyes. "What it all boils down to is how you were feeling during the altercation with your father. Think back carefully now and answer me truthfully. Were you in fear for your life?"

I could feel everything I had felt like it had happened minutes ago instead of days ago. The cruel bite of Dad's two-by-four as blows landed on my chest, arms, and back. The tiny nail-holes and imperfections in the rough wooden floor as I pressed my face against it, cowering. The cool weight of the gun in my trembling hand; frightening yet comforting because it gave me hope. Without that gun, I hadn't had a chance.

I cleared my throat and said, " I thought he was going to kill me for sure. I didn't even aim when I pulled the trigger. I just wanted him to get away from me before he bashed my head in with that two-by-four."

The detective nodded and added another note to his now mostly-full pad. When he looked up at me, the faintest of smiles played at the corner of his usually expressionless mouth. "Well, then you're free to go.

My jaw dropped open so suddenly, I must have looked like something out of a cartoon. Free to go? I thought I'd be in jail for the rest of my life! Hell, I least until I turned eighteen.

"Is this because my dad's not dead?" I asked. "What happens if he dies?"

"Nothing. You're still free. Self-defense is self-defense. It don't matter what happens to the other guy."

I smiled. In a life made up of one tough break after another, one thing was finally going right for me. If that don't make you smile, nothing will. But my happiness only lasted for a second. Something else occurred to me.

"Sir, I don't have anywhere to go," I said.

"No other family? Aunts or uncles?"

"No. It was always just my mom and dad."

"We'll have to find you a foster family then. Might take a little while. You could go back to the Reformatory for a few days…"

"Sir—" I interrupted. "Could I stay at my friend's house?"

"I'll have to call this friend to make sure it's okay with his parents."

My heart sank. He probably wouldn't let me stay at Ponyboy's house just because his parents were dead. "He doesn't have parents. They died a few months back. He lives with his two older brothers."

"How old is the oldest one?"

"Twenty. And he's real responsible."

The detective scratched a bushy eyebrow for a moment then said, "I don't like it much, but okay. You can stay with your friends, but only until I get the paperwork for a foster family worked out."

"Thank you sir," I said, and I really meant it. After everything that had happened to me, I was finally going to be able to go somewhere where people cared about me: the Curtis house. I was thrilled. The detective almost looked happy too for a moment, but then his expression turned serious.

"I'll be honest with you, son. Everything's going to be different for you now, but not everything's going to be better. Foster families don't always take in kids out of the goodness of their hearts. A lot of them do it for the state funded stipend they receive. There's no guarantee you'll be treated much better than you were at home. They probably won't hit you— won't want to get in trouble. But they probably won't love you neither. So don't get your hopes up for that.

"Okay."

"And from now on, you're going to be on very thin ice when it comes to the law. Seems to me like you're a good kid, but you probably have delinquent friends. Am I right?"

I thought of Dally who was in and out of jail all the time and Two-Bit who was hardly ever sober on a weekend night. "Yes, sir," I said.

"Well, don't let them get you into any trouble. Judges just love to give foster kids long sentences. Don't give them the chance to lock you in the Reformatory for two years, all right?"

"No sir. I won't"

"Good man. Now, go wait on the bench outside while I call this friend of your. If all's A-Okay, I'll drive you there."

"Yes sir. Thank you again. I really mean it."

* * *

My father died later that day.

I was sitting on the couch with Ponyboy and Sodapop. All three of us were eating chocolate cake. Darry said we would spoil our supper, but Soda thought my freedom was cause for celebration. We were sitting there eating and laughing when the phone rang. Darry answered it.

"Hello?... Yes… Yeah, he's here… May I ask what this is about?... Oh… Well, I'll get him for you." He took the receiver from his face and covered the mouthpiece with his palm. "Johnny, it's for you. Some detective."

I could feel the color drain from my face, but I got up and took the phone from Darry.

"This is Johnny."

"Hello Johnny. This is Detective Wichnowesky." I caught his name this time, but only because I had seen it written down earlier. "I just got a call from the hospital," he continued. "About your father. I hate to have to tell you this over the phone but… he's dead Jonny. Passed away about an hour ago."

I knew he was going to say that. I had known since the phone first rang. That happens to me a lot— getting a feeling about what's going to happen before it does. But knowing didn't make the news any easier to swallow. It meant that I had killed a man, which is a pretty hard thing to wrap your head around, even when you know it's coming.

"Johnny? You still there?"

"Yes. I'm here."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"Like I said, I'm sorry to tell you over the phone. But you have friends there to talk to, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay. And again, this doesn't change your sentence. You're still a free man."

"Okay."

"All right Johnny. Call me if you need anything."

"All right."

I hung up the phone. Three pairs of Curtis eyes were on me, similar expressions of concern on each brother's face. Sodapop was the first one to speak.

"What is it, Johnny?" he asked softly.

"My father. He's dead."

All three of them winced slightly when I said it. Suddenly I really didn't want to be in the same room as them, not with them all feeling bad for me.

"I have to go," I stammered and headed for the door, almost at a run. One of them shouted at me to wait. I couldn't tell which brother it was. I didn't pay attention though. I just ran.

I didn't stop until I got to the vacant lot down the street from the Curtis' house. I turned around and saw that Ponyboy had followed me. Actually, he had caught up with me.

"Glory, you run fast, Pony," I panted.

"I know," he said. He wasn't even out of breath. "And I know you aren't all right, Johnny. You don't hafta fake it."

"Guess I can't pull one over on you, huh?" I said, trying to smile, but I couldn't. I already felt the tears burning at the back of my eyes. Ponyboy slid an arm around my shoulders and we sat down next to each other on the old car bench seat that was lying on the ground.

"Don't blame yourself Johnny. You _had_ to do what you did," he said.

"I know that," I sniffed. "But I still feel bad about it, you know? And you know what I feel worst about?"

"What?"

"The fact that I can't forgive him. I killed him and I still hate him for everything he did to me. I should just let it go, but I can't. When I saw him at the hospital, Dad said he had seen Jesus or something and that he knew all his sins were forgiven. But I don't _want_ him to be forgiven. Does that make me a bad person?"

I was sobbing by that point. Ponyboy pulled my head into his shoulder. It almost seemed like he was going to cry too.

"I didn't know you believed in all that heaven and hell stuff," Pony said, his voice shaking slightly.

"I don't know if I do, really. But Dad said he saw things."

"What kind of things?"

"I don't know. Tunnels and lights. Jesus told him he would go to heaven or something."

Ponyboy grasped me by the shoulders and forced me away from him so he could look me in the eye. "Look Johnny. You never _have_ to forgive your father. I saw what he did to you. He doesn't deserve your forgiveness after that. But forgiving someone when he doesn't deserve it is the… the… _biggest_ thing you can do as a person. So don't give up on it. But right now you're mad, and you should be. That _definitely_ does not make you a bad person."

He gave my shoulders an affectionate shake and I quit crying. I wiped my nose on the back of my hand. "Thanks Pony," I said, trying to smile.

"Feel better?" he asked me.

"Not really," I shrugged. "But I might someday."

"You _will_. Now come on." He stood and pulled me up by the arm. "Let's walk to the park and back."


End file.
